Aphrodite& The Mobster
by Aphroditemobster
Summary: This story is best described as Fifty Shades meets the Godfather. Angelina Ellington begins her erotic romance with Victor Salvatore one of the most eligible wealthiest bachelors with a family secret, then there is Nelson Stone who offers Angelina a chance at her dream job but a what price? Her erotic love story is laced with danger. heartache, adventure and suspense.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

They were pulling the body out of the Passaic River when I arrived. By the look of the body, it had not been in the river very long. There were two bullet holes: one right between the poor man's eyes, and one directly in his heart. He was missing all of his fingers.

The police presence was heavier than usual. A dead body in the river wasn't all that uncommon in Newark, after all. I knew that whoever the victim was, this wasn't your average, run of the mill murder. I made a note in my little notebook: eight uniforms, five plain clothes, four suits. Those suits told me all I needed to know: FBI. The FBI stereotype fit these four perfectly. Black suits, white button-downs, and ties. Military haircuts.

I got as close as the police allow the press. But I had a big advantage over most of the others: my petite stature allowed me to hide inconspicuously, to get closer to the area undetected. I could often get close enough to hear conversations the other reporters weren't privy too. This time was no exception. I was 20 feet from the corpse, and no one noticed.

The other reporters scrambled toward the briefing. A Newark police sergeant stepped to the microphone to address the salivating reporters. After six short weeks on the job, I could recite how these go down, verbatim. It's totally scripted. Official police training must include how to give the press the least information possible.

"I am Sergeant Baker. The victim has been identified as Philip R. Snyder. Cause of death appears to be the result of a gunshot wound."

Really couldn't figure that one out on our own. The reporters were all shouting at the stocky sergeant with the thick mustache. The years of murder, rape and horror were etched into his face. One reporter shouted over the others; I strained to see who won the contest of Who Gets the First Question. It was Nelson Stone, from Channel Six News.

Arguably, he was the New York Metro area's most eligible bachelor. Every woman in the local television business knew about Nelson Stone: he was a legend, and not just for his hard-hitting journalistic style. Every time he looked my way, my subconscious Scarlett, that part of me with the little corkscrew curls and the parasol, blushed and giggled. _That man is a sight to be seen_, she sighed.

I nodded in response to my own thoughts. I couldn't agree more. But Stone had the ego to match the looks—the wavy blonde hair, flawlessly coiffed, and the perfectly tailored clothing. His good looks got him through doors that were closed to other journalists, and he used those looks to his advantage, every chance he got. Women wanted to fuck him; men wanted to be him. His attitude was cocksure, his arrogance, blatant.

"Sergeant, do you think this execution was carried out by the Merola family?" Nelson asked.

"I never said execution. I can't comment on suspects. You know this, Mr. Stone."

The other reporters started shouting and harping, trying to pry information out of the sergeant. Nelson Stone waited for a break in the uproar.

"Sergeant, can you confirm if this is a mob hit?"

Sergeant Baker's lips pursed into a thin line as he snapped, "I have given you everything I can. This briefing is over."

I was surprised that Nelson would ask such obvious questions. Even to the novice eye, it was simple to spot the Feds. They don't show up for random bodies hauled out of the river. Their presence alone signified mob.

I grabbed the steering wheel of my Civic, pulled myself into the car. And I sat there, stone-still, as my senses unraveled and my subconscious flashed back to that day. My palms pushed out sweat as the nausea rose into my gut. I knew this was a mob hit, even without the sergeant's confirmation or denial. Those wounds were the mob's signature, or at least a few of them. I'd seen them before. When I was fourteen, my Uncle Sid was murdered. The assassin was never found; no arrest was made. But when the detectives came to tell Aunt Ella that her husband had been found—hanging in the freezer of his store with two bullet holes, one between his eyes and the other in his heart, and all his fingers removed—they warned her it was a mob signature…a message. Consuming emotion raged through my body. How could such a hellish hand be dealt to the man who stepped in as my second father? Why on earth would the mob want to kill my uncle?

A pounding on my car window startled me out of my reverie.

"Hey, you blocked us in."

"What?" I mumbled, and then looked up to see the face of Nelson Stone.

"Oh yeah, sorry," I said, as an odd, unexplained electric shiver ran through me. "I'm Angelina Ellington, Newark Gazette." He stifled a laugh at my confession. "And you are?" I asked.

"Nelson Stone. Channel 6 News." His tone was brusque, and projected annoyance.

I extended my hand out of the car window to shake his.

"Well, Miss Ellington from the Newark Gazette, it seems as though your car"-he motioned with his left hand, barely stifling his laughter-"is blocking us in."

"Well. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Stone."

I pulled out of the parking spot I had made from the bit of blacktop behind all the other reporters' bumpers. Gazette reporters were always the last ones invited to the ball. But I was going to change that.

This was my year of experience that everyone preached about in college. "Before you can get on the court with the big boys," the professors used to say, "you have to learn how to play the game." I had all I needed for my story anyway, so I jammed the car in reverse and drove back to the newsroom.

I was the new kid, the low man on the totem pole. But I intended to move up the ranks, and quick. My suspicion was that my editor thought this story was your everyday murder. I was boiling over with excitement to tell him of my discovery. I parked myself in my teeny tiny cubicle, if it could even be classified as that, but I wasn't going to complain. The Newark Gazette was a small paper, so no one had much space. Besides, a small paper was just the right place for a girl-a girl aiming to become a full-court big boy-to get her start.

My editor walked by, his nose buried in his Blackberry. His mumbled cuss words assaulted my ears. "Goddamn it, how hard is it to.…"

I jumped from my chair,

"Sir, do you have a second?"

He looked up from his blackberry and frowned. "Make it quick, Ellington."

"Yes, sir: that corpse they pulled from the river this morning was a mob hit."

His expression was one of indifference. "So?"

"Well, I want to dig deeper. Find out who the victim was, and do more than a drive-by piece on page ten."

He waved at me, annoyed. "Yeah, alright. But don't neglect your other duties."

"Yes sir."

He raised his eyebrow, his glasses sliding down his slim nose and his cheeks turning crimson. "Ellington. Quit calling me sir. This is not the Goddamn Marine Corps."

"Sorry, it's the Southern girl in me. I just can't seem to let her go." I smiled weakly.

He scowled and smoothed the few hairs he had left on his head. Then he turned toward his office, his wrinkled shirt untucked from his Dockers.

I had dug up as much as I could on the crime family that had a solid hold in this part of New Jersey. They controlled all of the unions, and…well, they had a controlling hand in everything, from extortion to racketeering, prostitution to illegal gambling. Truthfully, the Mafia was more than a curiosity for me. It was an obsession. I spent every spare second researching and understanding the mob and the players. The wounds I saw today were the same ones the cops found on my uncle.

I Googled Philip Snyder, and found he was the VP of accounting for Salvatore Industries, a company run by Victor Salvatore. I walked down to my editor's office. He was on the phone. He spotted me standing in the doorway.

"Hold on," he said into his phone and then snapped a question at me. "What is it, Ellington?"

"I'm going to Salvatore Industries to dig up some more information about the victim. It shouldn't take more than a couple of hours."

"Whatever," he said, waving me out of his office.

I had to change out of my jeans and sneakers before I left. I kept a plain black pencil skirt and a pale pink sweater, plus the only set of heels I own, in a back pack in my car for situations like this one. Pop-up interview opportunities.

It took three tries to get my car's engine to come to life. "Please, God," I prayed. "Don't let this car die, as I sure don't have the money to replace it. Besides, it only has a hundred eighty thousand miles on it! We both know Hondas get over two hundred fifty thousand. So I should be good for a while, right? Please, old girl. Stay with me."

Salvatore Industries was in Summit, New Jersey, an affluent suburb of New York City. It turned out to be a longer drive then I had thought. I texted my editor to let him know I would be longer than a couple of hours.

His response? "Ugh. Hope this isn't a wild goose chase, Ellington." I chose not to respond. If he questioned me about it, I would tell him I lost signal. Salvatore Industries was housed in a handsome brick and glass building. The lobby, rich with mahogany wood and marble, featured a fountain in the shape of a cupid-looking angel holding a platter. Not exactly how I envisioned a Mob headquarters. A massive desk with four receptionists protected the entrance to the rest of the building. Behind them sat two uniformed security guards.

_First line of defense_, I thought.

"May I help you?" the first receptionist asked. She was smartly dressed in a crisp navy suit. A cream silk blouse and gold chain popped against the neutral color. Her blond hair was shaped in a neat bob.

"Yes ma'am" I said, which made her frown. Holy Hell, I thought. What is it these Yankees have against ma'am and sir? Down South, you didn't ma'am or sir your adults, they'd spank the devil out of you. As an adult, it's just basic respect.

I gave her a smile in return. "My name is Angelina Ellington, and I am here to see the CEO of Salvatore Industries. Mr. Victor Salvatore."

Her face tightened as her lips went flat.

"Do you have an appointment to see Mr. Salvatore, Miss Ellington?"

"No ma'am."

Again that frown made an appearance.

"What is this in regards to?" she asked, her tone cool.

"I am with the Newark Gazette," I said, flashing my press badge. "I would like to get a statement from Mr. Salvatore about the death of one of your employees."

"Wait one moment, please."

She rose from her chair, the irritation hardly contained by the set of her shoulders. She walked to one of the security officers and whispered in his ear, keeping her eyes on my badge. He lifted his eyes to mine, then nodded and picked up the phone. He shook his head once, twice, then hung up and walked toward me. "Miss Ellington is your name? Mr. Salvatore is unavailable for comment. But our vice-president of public relations will speak with you."

"That would be fine. Thank you," I said. The blond receptionist still hadn't taken her eyes off of me.

"Follow me, then," he said.

He led me to the elevator. The buttons went up to twelve, but those for floors 10, 11 and 12 were above a plaque reading, "Access key required." He inserted a key for the 10th floor and turned it to the left

_Additional protection for whom, from what_, I wondered.

I tried to make small talk. "Where are you from?" I asked.

No response. He stared straight ahead, his expression indifferent.

I fidgeted with the hem of my skirt, which was deciding to unravel. At the tenth floor the elevator doors opened with a discreet whoosh, and I was led down a spacious, modern corridor. Sparsely decorated offices appeared to the left and the right until finally, at the last door on the left, we stopped.

The guard held the glass door open for me. We were greeted by a standing receptionist and an ornately carved wood desk. The receptionist had black hair that hung to the waist. Her suit, gray and tailored, looked to be from Saks Fifth Avenue, and her necklace, studded with rubies, looked like it cost more than my annual salary. The guard finally smiled—at her—and announced my intention of seeing the VP. She, in turn, motioned me toward a brown leather couch between two marble sculptures.

Rather than look at her looking at me, I studied the statues. One was a naked woman, lying on a daybed with a sheet draped across her waist. The other was a young girl holding the hand of a younger girl. Both girls looked straight ahead; somehow, their eyes were haunting. I took a seat on the couch and thanked the guard for the personal escort. He was through the glass door without a glance my way.

The secretary said a few quiet words into her phone, and then an audible, "Very well. I will bring her in." To me, she said, "Right this way, please."

"Thank you, ma'am," I said, as she opened the door to the office for me. She grimaced. I _had_ to work on that.

Luckily, the office took my mind off my new faux pas. It was as large as a ballroom, and bright as the sun. The entire back wall was made of windows; huge paintings, what I imagined to be Italian landscapes, hung in each corner of the office. Mosaic pots held some sort of palm trees; these flanked a glass conference table, big enough to serve Thanksgiving dinner on. Smack dab in front of those enormous windows was an equally impressive desk of glass and polished steel, and centered on the desk was a gold bar with the man's name etched into it: Frank Bataglia.

Mr. Bataglia had the training-wrinkles of a man in his early forties. He was an abundant man, about six feet tall, and almost as wide as he was tall. He could've been a spokesman for Big and Tall stores. He extended his meaty hand across the desk to me.

"Miss Ellington. What can I do for you?"

"Mr. Bataglia, sir, I'm wondering if you might give me a statement regarding the death of a Salvatore Industries employee who was found in the Passaic River this morning. His name was Philip Snyder. From what I gather, he was an accountant at your company."

"Where are you from again?" he asked, more a laugh than a question.

"I'm a reporter for The Newark Gazette," I replied.

"Mr. Snyder was indeed an accountant for us, but he did not work exclusively for Salvatore Industries. We employed his firm on a freelance basis, to handle a select few of our accounting needs. His firm has a lot of clients."

He shifted in his chair as he spoke, a move that made me wonder. Was he lying? My new reporter's instincts said he wasn't comfortable with what he was saying. I found no mention in my research that the victim had his own accounting firm, or that he was employed anywhere other than Salvatore Industries. I thought I should call his bluff, but my subconscious Scarlett was scolding, _Don't you dare!_

"Really," I said, my tone conveying my doubt. "I didn't find any mention of Mr. Snyder having his own firm. In fact, your company website lists Mr. Snyder as a member of the board of directors, and the VP of accounting."

Mr. Bataglia shifted again, and his eyes narrowed. I imagined that was difficult to do, with such a round, full face. He smoothed his hair back and paused, like he was thinking of his escape route.

"My mistake, Miss Ellington. He did join the company full time a short while ago. I don't keep track of accounting, as it's not my department. Unfortunately, due to state privacy laws, that's all I can tell you."

I ignored his attempt to brush me off. "Can you think of any reason why he would have been murdered? Did he have any enemies, to your knowledge?"

"No," he replied, looking right into my eyes.

"How was his performance for the company?"

"I believe I told you, I can't comment due to privacy laws."

He was clenching the arm of his chair. Clearly, my questions were agitating him.

"What was he working on for Salvatore before his death?"

With a push on the arms of his chair, Mr. Bataglia was on his feet.

"Again, Miss Ellington, I've said all that I can and will tell you. Mr. Snyder worked here as an accountant. The company is sending its condolences to his family, and we are saddened by their loss. And now, Miss Ellington, I have another appointment."

As he strode across his office, I frantically tried to come up with that magic question, that one that would trigger him to say more than he planned. Some detail, some clue that no other reporter could wrangle out of him. But my brain wasn't cooking with gas.

"Thank you, Mr. Bataglia, for your time," I said, as I walked through the doorway..

He shut the door hard behind me. I looked up at the sound of flirtatious laughter, and there he was. The devil himself: Nelson Stone, standing before the secretary's desk. His eyes blazed into hers with no good.

I caught the glance he gave me as I walked by her desk. It was an expression of shock, amusement and annoyance, all wrapped into one.

"Mr. Stone." I said coldly. Jesus H, what was he doing here, anyway? This was my interview, not his.

"Call me Nelson, love."

One look told me that comment was directed at the secretary, not me. She blushed, and giggled like a little girl.

"Well, let me tell Mr. Bataglia that you're here, Mr. Stone. He's on his way to a meeting, but maybe you can walk with him." She thrust her ample chest out as she got up from her chair.

"I'm attending that meeting with him, sweetness," he smiled.

"Holy Hell, can this elevator be any slower?" I whispered, maybe louder than I should have. I didn't need to worry about offending Nelson Stone, though. His attention was riveted elsewhere. But just as the elevator dinged for floor 10, he looked in my direction and winked, the arrogant bastard.

The elevator finally opened, and I practically face planted in the middle of it on these damn heels. I murmured an "excuse me" to myself, grateful no one noticed my lack of grace. I hate heels, and can't walk in them. Every time I strap them on, it's like I'm a toddler, just learning to walk. But a course I took in college—"Keys to Business Success"-said you need to dress for the position you want in the future. So for now, I suffer in heels.

Speed-pressing the "L" button to hurry my escape did no good. Instead of going down, the elevator lurched up. It stopped at the 12th floor.

When the doors popped open, I was so busy mentally writing my story, I didn't notice who got in. I just saw two figures from the corner of my eye. I leaned forward to push my button again, to force the elevator's descent. Of course I lost my balance, thank you heels, and was attempting to catch myself with the wall, when an enormous hand pressed against my back.

"You ok?" a deep voice asked.

"Yes," I mumbled, blushing like crazy. "Thanks."

A foreign feeling coursed through my body at his touch, making my subconscious Southern Scarlett stop her parasol-twirling. Sweet Baby Jesus, what _was_ that? Every nerve ending south of my belly button melted, while the rest of my body shivered.

He flashed me a "You're welcome" smile, and then turned back to the man next him. I took the opportunity to study his features. He was striking. An Italian Adonis. At the 10th floor, as the elevator door sprang open, he turned and smiled back at me. I turned away, my face flushing hot.

Holy Mother of God. The screen didn't do him justice. That smile, that sculptured jaw? I had seen a pale imitation of them on the company website. The Italian Adonis was Victor Salvatore. The man who was off-limits when I arrived now stood before me in his entire splendor. The elevator door closed leaving me standing there, mouth agape, clutching the side of the elevator as my legs turned to liquid.

**Page **11

7/23/2012 17:47 a7/p7


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

"Where the fuck you been, Ellington?" my editor scolded.

"Sorry. My interview took longer than I thought." Really. Did he _need_ to use such vulgarity?

He raised his eyebrow like a warning. Could he read my mind?!

"Ellington," he growled.

"Yes sir?"

Shaking his head, he said, "Senator Matthews is holding a political fundraiser tonight. I hate those God damn events. They bore the shit out of me." Lord, he is just a crotchety old coot! "Here," he said, throwing a press pass at me.

"Okay…" I said, waiting for something in the way of instruction. But he turned back to his Blackberry, so I turned to leave.

"Oh, yeah. One more thing, Ellington. It's black tie, so wear a dress. A fancy one."

As he said it, he scanned my frayed black pencil skirt and pink sweater, my wavy copper hair in a ponytail twist. Despite that Southern upbringing, I dress for comfort, not fashion. Hell. My job requires me to hide in shrubs, climb in dumpsters and lurk in back alleys. Stilettos and dresses are not my best fashion choice. Sneering once more for good measure, he waved a hand toward his office door.

My brain did a quick inventory of my sparse closet, but didn't find anything fit for black tie. My subconscious Scarlett scowled, reminding me that if I'd opted for a state college in Rhode Island, I wouldn't have five hundred a month in school loans. I could be using that money to buy nice clothes, instead. But hateful thoughts such as those weren't helping my wardrobe or my morale. To distract myself, I headed to my desk. I had a story to bang out. I could sort out the formal attire puzzle later.

Just as soon as I hit send on that story, I headed to the ATM and checked my balance. As I frowned at the paltry sum, exactly one word came to mind: _crap. _I had only one sliver of hope. Maybe Nicole had something I could borrow.

I said a prayer of thanks when I pulled up to the condo and saw Nicole's car. It was the latest in a long series of grateful prayers featuring Nicole's name. She was the first person I met when I moved to Providence from North Carolina, at the ripe old age of ten. It was right after my folks died, and to say the move gave me culture shock is the understatement of the season. I had a devil of a time just communicating with the natives.

Growing up I had two Yankee cousins, Curran and Luke. They spoke very Northern, so I picked up a little bit from them, when they visited. But having my whole self plopped smack dab in the middle of Yankee Land? Well, that was a whole different firecracker. I needed one of those little books that help you translate, Redneck to Swamp Yankee. Thank God for Nicole, who had family in Alabama. As a child, she'd spent two weeks of every summer at fishin' camp, as she called it. She served as translator for my whole fifth grade year, the worst year of my life.

Lucky me, that fifth-grade friendship stuck. We were best friends all through junior high and high school, and when the time came for college, we saw no reason to mess with a good recipe. We enrolled together at Emerson, her with a major in journalism, and myself with a plan to study journalism with a minor in psychology. After we graduated from Emerson College, we decided to switch our roommate status to a whole new scene: New York. Or rather, nearly New York. Her inspiration was to be an anchor for a major network. Fox, to be specific. My inspiration was to finish my education on how to survive the big bad North. New York, the biggest and the baddest, would be my final exam and Jesus H I was getting an A.

Nicole's parents divorced when she was young, and to compensate for their guilt, they gave her lots of play money. Those dollars funded her "becoming a television anchor" phase, as they referred to it. They also made up for my rent-money shortcomings. Living cheap in a swank New York-view apartment almost—_al_most—compensated for the inferiority complex I got from being Nicole's BFF.

Nicole is stunning. Five-foot-ten + long, straight blonde hair + legs that go on forever=perfection. Her 36Cs were a graduation gift from her dad, a high powered divorce attorney in Boston. To this day, her dad pays the rent on our New Jersey condo. Nicole really wanted a place in the city, but her dad felt Jersey was safer. So Nicole had to suffer. But not for long because, of course, she got an internship at Fox News.

"Hey, Nikki! Where you at, Sugar?" I teased, throwing my keys on the little table just inside the front door.

"I'm in my room, Honey Chil'," she yelled back.

Nicole loves when I used my Southernism on her. Soon as we walk in our front door, we're bantering back and forth in Southern. It's like growing up with bilingual parents. You speak English in public, and your native language at home.

"Sweetheart, you were wonderful! Who knew a ten year old could pirouette so many times without falling over?" my dad said, his eyes twinkling. He tapped his index finger on the end of my nose, then bent down and kissed it for good measure. I loved when my daddy did that.

"I'm just a sucker for my sweet, tutu-wearing angel," he said, as my mom gave me a bouquet of roses. They were ballet recital pink.

"You look so beautiful, Angelina," she said. I grabbed her hand, and we walked out to our minivan for the ride home to Hendersonville. We talked about our upcoming Memorial Day trip to the beach, which got me so excited that I blew a fuse. Dance recital, roses, and a beach trip? Phew. I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore.

I climbed back to the third row of the minivan, my favorite spot for a nap, and was halfway to dreaming of ocean waves when I was jolted awake. Mommy was screaming as the minivan jerked violently. The headlights in front of us moved fast like bullets as my Daddy swerved again and my Mommy screamed again…then the deafening sound of metal crunching, glass shattering. Then blackness and silence.

I opened my eyes and my head throbbed. It felt like ice picks were puncturing my eyes, over and over without mercy. I was dangling upside down, spot lit by the beams of the mangled car that hit us. I saw the broken glass, the blood that was splattered all over.

"Mommy?" I asked. No response. "Mommy!" I screamed, and then I saw her.

Her face was covered with blood. A bone stuck out of the arm that was dangling from her shoulder, like a tree limb that had snapped. I tried to scream, but the words wouldn't come out. They got stuck in the quicksand of warm salt in my mouth.

I fought to not see it, to cover my face with my arm. But I couldn't move. I was pinned between my seat belt and the roof of the minivan. I closed my eyes, but not soon enough. Not before I caught sight of my daddy's face, red black with blood. I got out a scream of agony and terror before darkness wrapped her arms around me.

Standing by my mother's casket, I looked at her still body. She was dressed in her red dress, her special-night-out dress, and the pearls my daddy gave her on their twentieth wedding anniversary. Emerald earrings, her birthstone, graced each ear. When I brushed my hand down her cheek, the cold of her skin jolted through my fingertips. The heat of my own tears streamed down my own cheeks.

I gently pressed my lips on hers, and caressed the long chestnut hair that lay peacefully across her breasts. Her dark brown eyes were closed, now, forever. She looked asleep. I whispered my mantra in her ear, over and over, so softly that no one else could hear me. "Please, Mommy. Wake up. I need you." Over and over I said it, a hundred times. But she lay there like a stone. I hugged her for the very last time, a ten year old at her parents' funeral.

I slowly moved away from my mother's casket, barely able to place one foot in front of the other. Finally, I reached my father's casket. He, too, looked like a wax figure.

I kept thinking, praying, wishing, with every fiber in my soul, that he would open his eyes and say "Boo" like he did, back when I was still small enough for footy pajamas. Back then, when I woke up from a nightmare, I would slyly, quietly creep into their room and crawl into their bed. I tried to be so stealthy that they wouldn't know I was there till the next morning. It never worked. Daddy would play along for a minute, pretending to be asleep, but then he'd suddenly flash his eyes open and say, "Boo!"

I would giggle softly, trying not to wake Mommy up. Then I'd curl up under his big strong arm and fall fast asleep, all my monsters and goblins long gone. I would dream about ballerinas and beach trips.

My Daddy was wearing his blue pin stripe suit, a cream-colored shirt, and a red tie, to match Mommy's dress. Proudly displayed on the tie was the diamond clip Mommy had given him, that same anniversary she got her pearls. His light brown hair was cut short and neat, and his mustache was trimmed, just to his liking.

I longed to be wrapped in the strong, safe arms that kept me safe and provided me with entertainment. Daddy was a human jungle gym. He allowed me to channel my inner chimpanzee, to swing wildly from his arms like a church bell. Later, those same big arms would carry me to bed and tuck me in at night.

Daddy looked at peace, and I knew he was with Mommy in heaven. But I wanted him here with me. I know Daddy would want me to be brave, and I was trying. But I missed them both so much! I ached to my core with longing, dread and sadness.

Leaning over, I traced my index finger down his nose, tapped the end lightly, and kissed it. "Goodbye, Daddy. I love you so much," I whispered. The word goodbye was what broke me. First the shaking started, then the sobbing. Huge, convulsing sobs that robbed my lungs of air, that ripped me apart. I closed my eyes to block it all out, and the darkness gave me a sensation of floating. Soft, safe floating. I felt big arms wrap around me and heard whispering in my ear.

"It's okay, baby. It will be okay."

A feeling of hope snapped my eyes open; anticipation coursed through my veins. It was just a bad dream. I knew it! I was back in my Daddy's arms.

But my nose betrayed me. These arms didn't smell like my Daddy. Daddy always smelled like Old Spice. A little bit sweet. It was Uncle Sid that smelled sharp like house cleaning stuff, like Barbasol. It was Uncle Sid carrying me out of the funeral. I buried my head in his shoulders and chanted, over and over, "Mommy, Daddy, please…."

My mother, Ellie, was a third grade teacher. After her death, her class sent me a condolence card. I never opened it. I keep it in a scrapbook. My father was an engineer. His company gave me a check for ten thousand dollars, to be put toward my college education. Three days after the funeral I packed these mementos, along with my warmer clothes and my baby doll that my mom gave me for my third birthday and my stuffed bunny Norman, and moved to Providence, Rhode Island. I would now be living with my Aunt Ella, my Uncle Sid, and my two cousins, Luke and Curran. The ones who spoke Yankee.

My aunt and uncle's house was a Victorian. The town had deemed it "historical," so it had a gold place card above the door, alerting all who cared that it had been built for some sea captain no one remembered. The best thing about the place was its huge, wrap-around front porch. It was grand, it was elegant, and it was one of the only things that reminded me of the South. One of my Aunt Ella's favorite pastimes was to sit on that porch and "listen to the blackness," as she called it. That's what she did as soon as we reached their home. My Uncle Sid and my cousins and I tip-toed past her, carrying the pieces of my life into their home.

I got the bedroom next to Curran's. It used to be the guest room, but now it was mine. I hoped all the guests before me had been female, because it sure was a girly room. The wallpaper looked like frill pressed flat: dainty peach flowers on white. Three big windows had white lace curtains and a cream colored vanity sat in the corner with hand held mirror and matching paddle brush resting on top.

The house was the opposite of my house with Mommy and Daddy, a modern brick colonial with a fancy kitchen and a fireplace with a cut out above it for the television. It had the tray ceilings, the crown moldings, and all the other benefits of living in a subdivision: the swimming pool, the tennis courts, the club house.

"Angelina, the boys and I put the last boxes on the floor in your room."

"Thanks, Uncle Sid," I said, forcing a smile.

"I'll help you put stuff away, if you want me too…" Curran said.

"Curran, leave Angelina alone. Let her get settled," Aunt Ella said, appearing at the top of the stairs.

"Oh. Okay." He turned and ducked into Luke's room.

Luke was a year older than me. He was tall, lanky and awkward with a shock of bright red hair. The quiet type, he was one of those lucky ducks who are so smart, they don't have to study. I sensed he wasn't thrilled at my becoming a permanent part of the family. Surely having to deal with a little brother was bad enough. To have a girl around was torture. I promised myself I would stay out of his way.

Now, Curran was the exact opposite, at two years younger. My mommy used to joke that Luke and Curran had to have been adopted, they looked so different. Curran was small for his age, with short blonde hair framing an angelic face. And he had those eyes, swimming-pool blue, that could hypnotize you. Curran was attached to me like glue from the minute I walked through the door. He was a sweet little boy.

My first day at my new school gave me a glimpse into what Hell must look like. I was a Southerner orphan who talked funny. I liked foods that Rhode Island never knew existed. You'd think pimento cheese was a cuss word. I will never forget the look the lunch lady gave me when I asked if they had any banana pudding. I am telling you, she scared me. I couldn't' get away fast enough. I grabbed that brown tray with my chicken paddy and tater tots, and whirled to face the busy lunch room…full aware I had nowhere to get away to. Curran had the third grade lunch period, and Luke was over at the middle school. I didn't know a soul. Like I said: Hell.

"You're can sit with me if you want," a voice from behind me said. "You're new right?" It was the voice of Mercy herself. I turned around to face her and nodded a yes

"I'm Nicole Anderson. Or Nikki, as most people call me."

"Oh, I'm-I'm Angelina Ellington." I said shyly, and looked down at my tray of Sloppy Joe's. I followed Nicole to a table in the back of the lunch room, where she introduced me to three other girls.

"Nice to meet y'all," I said, which got me more looks like the one the lunch lady dished out. "The proper grammar is 'you all,'" said the pudgy-faced girl with the fancy braids.

"I think she'll fit in just fine without a grammar lesson from you, Julie," Nicole snapped. Then she smiled at me. She kind of shoved on the shoulder of the girl to her right, making the girl clear a space for me.

My Uncle Sid ran a little grocery store in Providence. He called it Costa's, for his family name on his father's side. The Italian side. His mother's people were Irish, but Uncle Sid's only Irish trait was his love of beer. Every day but Friday, us kids would go straight to the store after school and stay there 'til aunt Ella got back from her nursing shift. Fridays, Aunt Ella's day off, we took the bus straight home. Except that one Friday, when Aunt Ella got called into work. The front office sent each of us a message to take the bus to Costa's, not home.

Friday was just like any other day around the store. We were playing and occasionally doing odd jobs for Uncle Sid, as usual. But then something kind of strange happened, something that didn't make sense. Two well-dressed men came in, making the bell on the door ding louder than usual. They both had thick black hair, combed back and wet-looking. The larger man had a large gold ring on his right hand. That's what most caught my eye.

For some reason my breath stopped, and I couldn't move. The customers seemed nervous, too. The store discreetly went empty. There was something confident and invincible about how the men carried themselves. There was something scary about that confidence. The two men seemed to like my Uncle Sid. They spoke to him quietly, with slight smiles; Uncle Sid nodded, went into his office, and quickly returned to them, grasping a small brown envelope in his hand.

Curran started pulling at my arm. "Come on," he whispered. "We're supposed to be out back when they come."

"Oh," I whispered back. I followed him to the stockroom, sneaking looks back over my shoulder.

Luke was already in there, tucked into a corner.

"Who are they?" I asked him.

"They're gangsters," Luke snorted. Like, how could I be so stupid.

"_Gangsters_?" I asked. "They exist? I thought they were made up characters from the movies!"

Luke rolled his eyes at me like I was the world's most ignorant girl. "Oh, they're real, Angelina. Too real."

That was the first time I was in the store on a Friday, and something told me it would be the last. That something also told me not to mention the two men to my aunt or my uncle.

It was a Thursday afternoon, five years later. I was behind the register, lately Uncle Sid has entrusted me to be in the store alone; as he goes off on his mysterious little jaunts. I was stocking cigarettes, when I turned to find them standing there. I knew immediately who they were. They looked the same, and they evoked the same response: my stomach tightened, and the customers disappeared.

The larger man tapped his fingers on the counter. This time, I got a better look at his ring. It was beefy and gold with a horse shoe stamped into it and a diamond at its center. In studying his ring, I couldn't help noticing his knuckles. They resembled a gorilla's. When I looked from his hand to his face, I felt his eyes pierce through me. There were secrets behind those eyes. Ugly ones. The slimmer of the two was younger. His hair, the color of coal, was almost pretty against his olive skin. Both men, on their left hands, wore wedding rings.

"May I help you?" I said, struggling to keep my voice calm. I couldn't believe that I was talking to in-the-flesh mobsters. I had managed to sneak in some mafia movies after that first time I saw them. I was at the same time fascinated and petrified. If the mob was real—and if they _knew _my _uncle, _I had to do all I could to understand them.

Aunt Ella didn't like us watching such violent movies. But Luke had an insatiable appetite for everything mafia, especially The Godfather series. He allowed me to watch with him, on those rare occasions that we were the only ones home. I didn't know then why he stopped his quiet hate of me for these moments. Matter of fact, I still don't know.

"Is your uncle here?" the big man asked. I could tell he was in charge. The other man was quietly scanning the store. What was going through my head was, _How do they know I'm his niece? I've never met them…._

"He's out back, unloading a truck. Shall I grab him for you, Mr…?" Instantly, I wished I'd kept my question to myself.

"You do that, pretty," he said, scanning my body with his eyes. "That'd be great."

"Yes, sir," I squeaked and hurried out back for Uncle Sid. He had his hands full with cases of tomatoes.

"There are two men out front to see you," I said.

"Whoever it is, tell 'em to come back tomorrow," he said. "I'm in the middle of unloading the truck."

"It's them," I said, staring at the concrete of the loading dock

"Who?"

"The men who come on Fridays."

"Stay here," he said.

I nodded as Uncle Sid raced out of the stockroom. I tiptoed to the door and peeked around into the store, straining to hear their conversation. I could only make out fragments. The ape man was Gino and the other man was Tony. Gino mentioned a meeting that night; they wanted Uncle Sid to attend. That's all I had heard when I had to jump away from the door's edge. Gino's eyes had swung away from my uncle, right toward me. Dang! Did he know I was spying?

On the drive home from the store, Uncle Sid was quiet with his thoughts. I took a deep breath and tightened my grip on the door handle "Uncle Sid, I have never had the courage to ask this but who are those two scary men that visit every Friday?" I swallowed hard, waiting for the answer. His eyes were distance and preoccupied without looking at me he said matter of factly just some business associates don't worry about it sweetie." "Business associates" all the marking of the Mob just like HBO movies. I thought to myself.

Why did the mMt me, he oculdn'ibed above. You could start wiing...ing out his plan?sy? Did he think Angelina could pob come to his store every week? What did they want? How did they know about me? I never did ask my uncle those questions. Luke and HBO were my only sources of information about the mob.

Nicole was sprawled across her bed, surfing the internet. She was looking for information about some moron who got drunk, then decided it was a good idea to let his kids tie their sled to the back of his car, then drive around the block.

"Angelina. Do you believe how stupid people are?"

"Oh my, yes. If you had my boss, sugar, you'd believe it, too. And how was your day?"

"Boring. They just give me crap to look up on the internet, crap that _might_ make for an interesting story. How was yours?" She didn't lift a finger, or an eye, from her computer.

"Complicated, and better explained over a bottle of tequila," I laughed.

"Go get the salt!" she said from halfway to the liquor cabinet, her computer skidding across her bed.

"Hold on, Nikki! I can't drink yet! I got roped into attending some political event for Senator Matthews tonight."

"How the hell did you get that?" Unless I missed my mark, she was envious. Of a… political event?

"My boss didn't want to go, and aside from the mailroom guy, I'm the lowest on the totem pole. So I got the honor. So I need to borrow a dress. A formal one."

"You're going to drown in anything I own," she said, changing her route and heading for her closet.

"I know. Your floor-length gowns will have a wedding train, when I put them on. But that's good. My shabby old heels won't show."

"Girl. You still only have those bad black heels? Scuffed at the toes, with the nail sticking through the heel?"

I couldn't do anything but shrug and look at the carpet. She disappeared into her closet.

"Here, try this," she said, coming back out. "I've never worn it; the red makes my skin look like a cadaver. Plus it's so short, I'd get arrested for indecency. It was just one of those deals a girl couldn't pass up." She winked at me as she handed me the hanger. "But like they say, everything happens for a reason. But you with your size five feet, for shoes, you're shit out of luck."

With the dress, though, I wasn't shit out of anything. In fact, if I can say so myself, I had everything I needed for that dress. And it was all in the just-right spot.

"Wow, you look great!" Angelina said. "Now go get those shoes."

"I can't do it, Nik. I can't let you see that mess with your dress. We'll just keep this picture in our heads, and pretend there's nothing to me below the knees tonight, okay?"

I hugged Nikki and dashed out of her room, accepting the high five my subconscious Scarlett so graciously offered. Lunging for my closet, my alarm clock caught my eye: 7:30. I had exactly 30 minutes to get to that function.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The Summit House was smack dab in the center of Atwell's Avenue in Providence, not that my subconscious Scarlett took notice of the locale. Poor girl, she started weeping when she saw it. "_Tara!"_ she gasped. I could see why. Snow white pillars towered over the approaching guests, and the carved oak front doors must've weighed as much as my car. Speaking of the old clunker, there was valet parking, but I didn't avail myself of it. Instead, I parked on the street and walked the block back to the hotel. I was set to slip out of this affair just as quickly as possible. Besides, my Honda had been acting up lately. The last thing I needed was to be the gal in the circular driveway with the dead car and the sweating valet behind the wheel.

Thank goodness, a doorman pulled that massive door open for me, allowing me to enter the foyer without growing half-moons of sweat under my arms. I walked across the marble floor, admiring the ample shrubs and flowers, the elegant velvet couches and chairs that invited guests to sit a spell. Some feeling I can't name took over my heart. I felt, for the first time in years, back home. I may as well have been eight years old, back at my Granny Kate's house in Mill Springs, North Carolina.

I pulled my press badge out from the folds of my jacket, then asked the bellman where the fundraiser for Senator Matthews was being held. I had crossed fingers that he would say it was just in the next room. I was already fifteen minutes late.

"Yes, miss. It's in the Ravenswood Ballroom."

He pointed down a long hallway to the right of the reception desk. The door to the ballroom was flanked on each side by a big man in a big jacket hiding, I didn't doubt, a big gun. I flashed my press badge at them, but the one on the right put his ample hand on the door, preventing my entry.

"See some ID, please." He had that deep, no-nonsense voice I associated with black bodyguards who stand six-foot-seven.

"Here," I said, taking off my press badge and holding it out to him.

He didn't even reach for it. "Picture ID."

Dang! Did I leave my wallet in the car? I was in such a hurry to get here. I rifled through my purse until my hand landed on my patent-leather wallet. Thank you, baby Jesus.

"Okay! Here you go."

"Thank you," he said, opening the door for me. "The press is sitting in the front left corner."

The room was packed. I tried to be discreet as I weaved my way through the massive ballroom, packed with tables and guests. As I inched closer to the front, I saw Nelson Stone. Of course. He was seated at a different table, far from the designated press area.

Of course again, he caught me looking. Then he did something shocking. He stood up and motioned for me to join him. A feeling of professional courtesy over-ran my lack of desire to sit with the almighty.

"Miss Ellington, correct?" he asked, extending well manicured hand to mine and swiftly ordered a waiter to promptly fetch a chair and setting from the press table, stating, "Miss Ellington from the Newark Press will be joining us. The waiter was off in a flash, following Nelson's stern instructions. Then, as if it was me that had just spoken, he whispered in my ear to stay quiet, so as not to interrupt the senator's campaign manager, who was standing at a podium up front. Jerk.

Senator Matthew's campaign manager was firing up the crowd, giving them a show. He had to justify the fact that everyone in the room, all except the press, had paid ten grand for the privilege of hearing the senator's speech in person tonight, rather than watching him on TV.

I did the "Oh, I'm _so_ sorry!" hand-over-the-lips motion at Nelson, then glanced around the table. Everyone's eyes were glued on me. Why? Because I had been invited over by Nelson himself? I started to fidget, my nerves waging their attack. I noticed that I was the only person wearing a press badge. Where was Nelson's?

The room erupted in sudden applause, and there was a brief lull before the senator made his way to the podium. Nelson took that moment to introduce me to our tablemates.

"This is Nina Swanson and her husband Charles," he said, gesturing to a well dressed woman in her forties. She commented, "this pretty young lady must the latest Nelson Stone flavor of the month." Charles rolled his eyes at his wife's smart assed remark. "Nina is a top attorney in town." Nelson pointed out. I forced my best imitation smile as my subconscious Scarlet flipped her the bird.

"So very nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Swanson." They were repeating my words as we shook, both of them speaking at the same time. This must have been why it took me a second to catch up with Nelson's next introduction.

"This is Victor Salvatore, CEO of Salvatore Industries," he was saying.

I stopped breathing, and at the same moment flushed as red as my dress. I realized I hadn't gotten nearly a close enough look at him in the elevator. Really. When I compared him to an Adonis, I wasn't kidding. His chiseled features and wavy black hair were an exact replica. His eyes, black as coal, crinkled at the edges as he extended his hand toward me. The touch of his skin against mine made Scarlett let out a squeal, and other parts of me melted like butter on a Southern August afternoon.

"It's nice to meet you again, Miss Ellington," Victor said, with even more eye-crinkling. He was laughing at me, which means he remembered me and my lack of grace in the elevator. Even with the laughter, though, his body language said, "Don't mess with me." I felt sure that no one did.

"You too," I muttered. I looked down, but I couldn't turn toward the guest in the next chair, because Victor was is still holding my hand. The bombshell blond, the occupant of that next chair, fired grenades at me with her eyes.

"Seated next to Mr. Salvatore is Miss Whitman," said Nelson, and with that Victor finally released my hand.

The bombshell's haircut was identical to mine, except hers was the "splurge" picture in a glossy magazine, while mine was the "save." It was clear she didn't share my Great Clips budget. The diamond pendant around her neck landed right between her impressive breasts; her dress's price tag was as high as the hotel's door was heavy. Subconscious Scar stuck her tongue out at her, _Bitch!_

The introductions halted as the senator was introduced; Nelson leaned over and whispered in my ear.

"You look pretty this evening, Miss Ellington."

"Thank you," I replied, and as I did, black lightening caught the corner of my eye. Victor's gaze was fixed on me. For all of my shifting, I could still feel it there, heavy as his hand.

"Would you like to grab a drink after the event ends?" Nelson asked.

"I would like that," I replied. Damned professional courtesy!

Victor still hadn't taken his eyes of me, a fact which was making those perspiration moons start to glow. The bombshell looped her arm under his, which made his body stiffen. She, in turn, glowered in my direction. I focused on the senator like I hadn't seen a thing.

Dutifully, I pulled out my notebook and began cribbing the senator's points. Lower taxes, more jobs…the same promises every politician makes. Nelson looked at my scribbling pen and laughed. But where would he be when the next morning's deadline hit? Not with his hands on my notebook, I can tell you that.

The waiter came and refilled everyone's wine glass, then stopped when he reached me. Having missed the first round, I moved my empty glass toward him, but he kept his decanter at his side. Then he leaned in toward me, his lips as close to my ear as decorum would allow.

"I am so sorry, but in order to serve you I have to verify your age."

My face turned crimson and the reactions around the table were impossible to miss. Nelson was on the verge of a guffaw, while Victor looked like the cat that ate the canary. The bombshell looked like she'd rather eat my still-beating heart. The waiter smirked and grinned as he confessed, "just kidding miss," winking at Nelson and finally filling my wineglass.

"Don't say a word," I hissed at Nelson. He inched closer so his arm was touching mine.

After a dinner of prime rib and lobster, it seemed like an eternity waiting on the senator to make his way from table to table, giving each prospective voter their full load of, 'gimme your vote.' Finally he got to our table. Miss Bombshell and I were the only introductions needed, as the senator knew everyone else. The glad-handing around that table went on until, at long last, one of the senator's lackeys thanked the attendees from the podium. Finally, the political purgatory was over.

"So, Miss Ellington," Nelson began. "Meet you in the bar in fifteen?" Crap! I had hoped he'd forgotten. "There are a couple of things I want to talk to you about."

"Okay," I said, wishing I had an excuse to leave. Could I fake food poisoning? No, I would stay. If I stayed, maybe I could pry some insider's info from Nelson, something about his good friend the senator. Lord knows I needed something to spice up my story. At this point, it was fixing to be as exciting as watching paint dry.

"Have your ID ready," Nelson grinned.

I ignored him, but that didn't mean my subconscious Scarlett couldn't flip him a double bird as I walked to the ladies room. And wouldn't you know, Miss Bombshell had beat me to it. She stood in front of the mirror, reapplying her red lipstick. She couldn't be old enough for that fur stole draped across her shoulders, could she? Wait—on second thought, under the makeup-mirror's mega-bulbs, she sure could.

With my Southern charm turned up to full wattage, I smiled into the mirror at her. "Hello," I said. Dang, did I sound fake.

She threw that lipstick back in her purse, shooting me a look that would terrify an axe murderer. Without a word, she was gone.

My sweat stains had moved from crescent to full moon by the time I reached Nelson at the bar. He had two glasses of Merlot on cocktail napkins in front of him.

"I took the liberty of ordering for you," he said. "Didn't want to cause another scene. So how old _are_ you, Miss Ellington?"

"Twenty-two," I replied, grateful for the opportunity to tip the wine glass toward me, thereby hiding my eyes from his. I was not going to give him the ammo of my annoyance. "Let's just say my parents told me about the Beatles and bell bottoms in my tutu wearing days. There must have been several Beatles songs at your prom." I said, taking a long swallow of my Merlot. The corners of my mouth turning up while my subconscious Scarlet, looking around for a high five.

He raised a brow at me. "Touché, Miss Ellington. Well played. I'm actually 30." He took a sip of his wine. "So, you have a touch of a southern drawl going there, doesn't really go with the territory."

"Mmmm," I said, and didn't offer more. I was here to learn, not to share.

"How long have you been in New Jersey?"

"Six months," I said. The small talk was awkward, so I tried to curtail it. "So, Mr. Stone, you seem to be well acquainted with senator Matthews. What is he really like?"

Nelson ran his fingers through his hair, which would normally make me week in the knees, but considering his arrogant persona, you'll need a vineyard of Merlot grapes to solicit the weak knee feeling.

"He's the front runner. If he stays on course with his current campaign plan, he'll win. That's assuming his campaign manager doesn't screw it up for him."

"What do mean?" My fingers were just itching to flip open my reporter's notebook, but I stayed smart, kept it at my side. Nothing kills a scoop faster than shining a premature light on it.

"His campaign manager is a moron. He made an elementary mistake that cost his last candidate the election."

"Why would Senator Matthews hire him, then?"

"Because," Nelson smirked, "the campaign manager's uncle is the senator's biggest contributor."

I'd been running my thumb across the pages of my notebook, a fact I didn't realize until I caught Nelson looking at my right hand and laughing. Again. ?

"Am I amusing to you, Mr. Stone?" I asked.

"It's just—you're green, that's all. When you've been doing this for a while, you'll be able to write your story in your head, no notes required. The best stories, they're not always about the facts. It's the fluff that people really care about."

"You lost me, Mr. Stone."

"Quit calling me Mr. Stone. It makes me feel like an old bastard, especially sitting here with Little Miss Coed. My point is, just give your readers two or three bullet points. The rest of the piece needs to either pull at their heart strings or piss them off, so much that they demand change."

"Okay," I said, not hiding my glance at my watch. I was bored with revisiting Journalism 101, and with Nelson Stone, as well. So, he was a renowned journalist and an all-American good looker. He was also a condescending prick.

"Well thank you, Nelson. I appreciate the drink, but I need to head out. I have this story to write." I got up and extended my hand.

"Please," he said. "Stay. One of the reasons I asked you to join me for a drink was that I want to talk to you about switching teams and coming over to Channel 6."

"Mr. Stone, Nelson, remember that story I had to write, that's all in my head? That means that I already have a job."

"A real job, Miss Ellington," he scoffed. "I want to offer you a _real_ job, as my technical reporter. I was impressed when I saw you at Salvatore Industries yesterday. You've got tenacity. With me, you can put that to good use."

Smug as he was, he had a point. _The Gazette_ was notorious as a journalistic holding pen. If you landed there, you were either paying penance for having fucked a story up, or you were a newbie who needed a foot in the door. I sat long enough for two generous sips of wine, calculating my response.

"I am not sure what to say, Nelson. My editor gave me my first shot in the business. I would hate to leave him in the lurch."

"Screw that, Angelina. I already spoke to your boss. I told him I was stealing you. Why do you think you were assigned to this event?"

"Because my editor hates political soirees."

"Nope. It's because he owes me a favor, and I told him to send you." Suddenly I understood the foul mood my editor had been in for the past two days.

"So what's it going to be, Angelina? What do you say?"

"Well the position is mighty tempting and thank you so much for the opportunity, sir," I replied grinning, hoping to garner some sort of response.

"Sir? Seems a tad formal, but okay. We do have to discuss specifics of the job, like how little I can get away with paying you!" he said with a broad grin. My subconscious scarlet pulled her empty pockets out of her tattered jeans and shrugged. Then she smiled while rubbing her thumb across her fingertips.

Let's celebrate with something a little stronger, Kamikaze?" Nelson implored.

"Oh my god, Kamikaze's? What are you trying to do Nelson, see how drunk you can get me? If I say yes how much will it affect my salary?" I said with a little grin. At the same time asking myself what I was getting myself into. Do I want to work for this man? "No, thank you. I have to drive and two is my limit with the wine. You pour those wicked drinks into me and you would have to bale me out of jail Monday morning" I smirked. Besides hard alcohol cause my BS glasses to go on and with Nelson was already breaking out my rubber boots.

"O-kay, Miss Ellington. Go finish your last two days at _The Gazette_. How about meeting me in my office at eight-thirty Monday morning. Your boss won't be expecting you so don't worry."

I made my way back to the car and climbed in. My mind was a blender, spinning together a crazy mix of thoughts. Channel Six technical reporter, Kamikaze's with the new boss and my enlightened view of Victor Salvatore. What a night!

I turned the key in the Honda, and nothing. It was dead.

"Are you kidding me?" I said. Or rather, almost yelled.

I tried again, and got just a clicking sound. I scanned the windows and saw nobody. Nothing. I was parked on a side street in New Jersey, at ten-thirty at night, without a helpful soul in sight.

I yanked open the glove box and fished through the clutter for the tiny flashlight I'd put in there years ago. At first click it was as dead as the car, but after I smacked it twice against the dashboard, it jerked to a dim little life. Cursing under my breath, I got out of the car and popped open the hood. I knew very little about cars, but hoped that the problem would immediately jump out and slap me. I did not relish bending over on a deserted street in this tight red party dress.

I scanned the engine for a clue, but no slap. A big red neon arrow pointing to a loose wire would probably be the only slap that would get me out of this predicament anyway. The only vehicles around were leaving the Summit House, but most of them were heading the other direction and the beams from approaching headlights threw my mind into overdrive. A good Sam' and a rapist were on the ends of the spectrum that flashed though my mind. I popped out from under the hood, trying to act like there were no issues and watching the vehicle pass out of the peripheral vision. When the brake lights came on my heart vaulted into my throat. The dark SUV started to back up so I slammed the hood and raced, as best as I could in my banged-up heels, back to the driver door and the potential safety of my cars locked interior. God damn heels! As soon as my fingers touched the door handle, I heard the sound of a good Sam voice, and my mind was washed with a sense of relief.

"Miss Ellington. Are you okay?" This semi familiar voice came from behind me and I felt a touch on my shoulder.

Which was it that shot the electricity through my veins? Was it the touch, or was it the voice? I whipped around to face him: Victor Salvatore.

"No. I'm okay. I mean, I'm not— my car is dead," I said. Or rather, I stuttered.

"Ah. Well. I would be happy to drive you home. I can have my driver take care of your car in the morning." His hand motioned to the waiting Escalade.

"Umm, I…" I started up with that stuttering again. "I'm not sure leaving my car here overnight is a good idea. What if it gets stripped down, and tomorrow it's a shell on blocks?"

"Then they would have done you a favor, Miss Ellington," he laughed.

Well, that was going a bit too far. I loved my little car. It had seen me through a lot of adventures. Yet when Victor held out his hand, as if our hands were magnets, my hand was suddenly inside his. And again, that bolt. It shot out to every nerve ending.

My subconscious Scarlett had done gone crazy, flinging open her closet and pulling out her bright red hot pants, her tube top, and her hooker shoes. She knew what this feeling was, but forgot to let me in on the secret. "Lust, baby," she whispered. "This here? It's called lust." I blushed, and she smiled.

"Mr. Salvatore, please. Call me Angelina, okay?" I said, admiring the way the streetlight hit his cheekbones.

"Done, as long as you return the favor and call me Victor," he said, opening the door to the Escalade.

"Let me lock up to at least keep out the honest folks." I smirked, though my mind was quite serious, worrying about that stripped scrap pile they'd find in the morning. After I'd locked the Honda I returned to the Escalade and Victors waiting gorgeousness.

Offering me his hand for assistance that I was more than willing to accept, he gently lifted me in, his other hand brushing my ass on its way to my waste. My pulse started racing its engine.

Judging from the width of his shoulders and size of his neck, I guessed the driver ran 325—but 325 pounds of muscle, not fat. There was nothing puffy about him. The interior light illuminated his shiny bald head. Victor climbed in behind me, gesturing to the opposite side of the leather bench seat. Scarlet was laying herself out, ready for action.

"What did you think of the event tonight, Angelina?" Victor said.

"Honestly? Boring. That's what I thought of it. It was the same rhetoric you always see on TV, but it was my job to cover the story."

"Honestly, I feel the same, but I have my civic duties, just as you have your job." He said with a subtle smile. "It was however, a much nicer experience with the addition of one Miss Angelina Ellington." He said, looking directly into my eyes. Normal men would have been subtly checking out other parts of my anatomy in this situation. What was that? Oh it was a foot sliding into the front door of my heart. Wow, what is happening here?

"Angelina is a beautiful name."

"Thank you," I said, still trying to figure out what to say. Victor's was immediately calm and at ease, making me feel so welcomed and safe. As I looked around the interior, not really thinking of anything more than what the hell do I say to him, he looked back at me, his expression soft and gentle. "Do I make your nervous Angelina?"

"I guess you do, yes," I said.

"Why?"

Why, he asked. Oh, I don't know…maybe because as soon as I saw him, my body turned into a molten blob of butter floating in a hot tub? Maybe because he made my subconscious Scarlett skydive from a plane without a parachute? Or that he was a 3-D version of a Harlequin hero? He was power, wealth and confidence. When you mix that with a seemingly gentle, caring, respectful and let alone, drop dead gorgeous man, you have a recipe that will make your mouth water and my lips tingle. He was sweetness with a small mix of mystery and danger, a pairing that made me physically ache between my legs. I showed a slight smile as I tilted my head with a slight shrug.

With my lame gesture, he smiled and switched topics. "I don't hear a Jersey accent on you."

"I'm originally from the South, sugar." I replied, and Victor laughed. "But I moved to Rhode Island when I was ten." Eleven ?

"That must have been a big change for you."

"You could say that. You've got the big ole' Jersey accent, Victor. Native, right?" I asked as my mind wandered part of the way back from the intrigue that was now burned into my brain.

"Born and raised." He replied.

"So tell me. How does one become president and CEO of such a large company at such a young age? Salvatore Industries is global, right? With a presence in Italy, Spain and France?"

"Impressive, Miss Ellington. You did your homework."

"When I came to interview you about Mr. Snyder, I wanted to be prepared."

Suddenly, the mood in the SUV went dark. He wasn't pleased with the mention of Mr. Snyder.

"Yes. I was sorry to hear about that. Very unsettling. But I have over 45,000 employees, and don't have the luxury of knowing each one personally."

That was my cue to change the subject, and I didn't want to be too pushy with a man who just came to my rescue. I looked out the window for inspiration—struggling to pull my eyes from his gorgeousness—and realized we were pulling up in front of my condo.

"How did your driver know where I live, Victor?"

"You told us when you got in the Escalade. First thing," he said.

I nodded, not believing him for a second. I know I didn't tell them my address. And for that matter, how did he know where I had parked? And that the Honda was my car? Coincidence? This was kind of unsettling but again, not a time for a debate.

Victor opened the door and climbed out. "I'll call you in the morning with details about your car," Victor said, holding out his hand to help me out of the Escalade.

"Thank you for the ride. I appreciate it."

"My pleasure. Let me walk you to your door."

"I'm good, thanks; you've gone out of your way enough for me." I didn't tack on the, "But why?"

But he wouldn't have heard me, anyway. His focus was on the edges of the parking lot. He furrowed his brow, then looked back at me.

"I'll feel more comfortable knowing you got to your condo safely, especially in this area."

"But..." As I began my protest, he took hold of my arm and began guiding me toward the condo.

"A gentleman doesn't drop a young lady at the curb and drive away. He makes sure she is safe."

Huh. He was more Southern than most of the transplanted Yankee "Southern Gentleman" I had known at school. "Well, thank you again for coming to my rescue, Victor. I would have sat there for Lord knows how long, waiting for a tow truck."

"You're very welcome, Angelina. I'll be in touch."

Unlocking the door to the condo, I realized I had forgotten to give Victor my cell number. I turned back, but he was gone.

My mind was working overtime on my encounter with Victor Salvatore. I couldn't wait to hash it out with Nicole, but my roomy was already asleep. I was left to replay the evening on my own.

Maybe that was for the best, though. I wasn't sure I wanted to share these memories just yet. The response Victor awakened in my body, my lustful thoughts—and my attraction to that mysterious, dangerous air he had about him—it all made me nervous as Hell. But at the same time, it was thrilling and Jesus H., how did he know where I live? I _know_ I never told him. And then there was that job offer from Nelson Stone. It was all too much for my brain to handle. It took a good while for me to fall asleep.

I woke up damn quick, though, about an hour later. Dripping with sweat, I was all too aware of the dream I'd just emerged from, a dream that featured Victor Salvatore, a Gondola in Italy, and naked bodies.

Thanks to Nicole and her fully-functioning Lexus, I was spared a commuter bus ride into work. That meant I was sweat-moon free for the eight-thirty editorial meeting, where we touch base on the stories everyone is working on. When I got back to my desk, my phone was blinking with a message.

"Good morning, Angelina." Okay, officially? He doesn't need to be physically present to start the firestorm downtown. "This is Victor Salvatore. I wanted to let you know, your car is at Adams' garage on 21st street. It will be ready to pick up at four-thirty." As a parting gift, he left his phone number.

He picked up on the third ring. "Angelina! You made it into work okay?"

"Yes Victor I did. Thank you again, so much, for getting my car to a garage. And please, let me know where I can send you a check for the tow truck."

"That's not necessary, Angelina."

"Oh, no. I can't let you pay. I insist."

"Not necessary, Angelina." His tone told me he meant it. And the mystery deepened.

"I will have my driver Mr. Hawke swing over and pick you up and take you to the garage."

"That is such a nice offer Victor but you both have already done so much to help. I would feel so bad to impose any more. " I said

Victor's sigh implied that his patience was waning and he again insisted. I was getting the feeling that 'No' wasn't a word he was used to hearing.

"Okay, that sounds great. Tell Mr. Hawke I will be waiting for him outside at four thirty."I responded. I could almost hear Victor's smile permeate through the phone.

Need to fill in here, how did they end their phone call?

I walked out of the paper at four thirty I was met by a Black Escalade and the large man with a bald head was waiting.

"Nice to see you again, Miss Ellington. We weren't formally introduced last night. My name is Mr. Hawke; I'm Mr. Salvatore's driver. I've been instructed to take you to your car."

Oh my god, the long arm of Victor there at to assist once again. "Thank you, that is so gracious of Mr Salvatore, but I can take the bus." I said it with a semi shocked mile. "But I really was grateful for the offer."

"Mr. Salvatore insisted, ma'am." How could I say no to a Yankee that calls me ma'am? Besides, I didn't want to make him contradict his boss' orders.

"Okay," I said, reaching for the front seat's passenger door handle. Mr. Hawke motioned me to the back door, opening it and helping me in.

I tried in vain to make small talk during the ride. "Thank you again for giving me a lift home last night. Funny thing, though: I don't remember telling you my address." Okay, maybe the talk wasn't that small.

He glanced at me in the rear view and said nothing. So instead of chatting, I sat back and panicked. No matter how much the bill for the car repairs ran, I wouldn't have the funds in my checking account. I hated racking up debt on my credit card, debt that would just sit there, gathering interest. But I wouldn't have a choice.

Adams' garage was in an upscale section of Summit. It was a small stucco building sandwiched between six-story apartment buildings. Looking like a small piece of history, being engulfed by progress. It had a green tin roof and a blinking red sign: "Adams' Repair and Service Center." Mr. Hawke opened my door and, again, took my hand to help me out.

"I appreciate the ride."

"My pleasure," he said. "I will wait here to ensure you are good to go before I leave."

"That is so sweet." I stated, as he turned and got into the Escalade.

I pulled opened Adams' front door, which continued the historic theme. Instead of the standard thick glass with bells at the top, it was one of those wooden doors that are split in half. So really, I opened half of Adam's door. The top half was already open.

An older man in a green uniform and a name tag that read "Moe" greeted me. "What can I do you for, Miss?"

"I'm here to pick up my Honda. The dark blue one? It was towed in last night."

"Sure. It's all set. Your alternator was shot." Moe studied the paperwork that had Honda scrawled across the top.

"Please work up my bill and I'll let my ride know it's ok to leave." I stated as I looked out the top half of the door and waved at Mr Hawke. He nodded his head, started the Escalade and was off.

"How much do I owe?" I asked, coaxing my credit card from my wallet.

"All set, miss," he said, waving a grease-lined hand toward the door.

"What do you mean?"

"Mr. Salvatore paid the bill," he said, ripping the top sheet from the papers and handing it to me. "Just wait here; I'll bring your car around."

"He did what?"! I scrolled through my phone for Victor's number and tapped "call."

"Hello, Angelina," came that voice.

"Victor, you shouldn't have paid my car repair bill! It was so very generous of you, but please, you have to let me repay you."

"Would you stop that, Angelina? It's not a financial hardship for me, by any means. Remember? 'President and CEO at such a young age'? So please. It's my pleasure."

"Well, really…I feel bad having you do that."

"I have an idea about how you can repay me."

"Oh? How's that?" I inquired, as my subconscious Scarlet chugged her sweet tea wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, now hydrated and ready for this yummy specimen of perfection.

"Have dinner with me tomorrow night. I'll pick you up at seven."

Holy Hell. One of the richest, most eligible bachelors in the United States just asked me out to dinner. Or rather, commanded me out to dinner. My subconscious Scarlett? She just fainted dead.

"Well, I would love that, Victor." The semi-stuttered response found its way to my phone.

"Fantastic. I'll see you at seven."

I passed the upscale second hand store that served as my savior for cheap clothes that don't scream thrift store. I was more than thrilled to find the perfect dress for my date for a steal of six bucks and stood in disbelief when I found a pair of silver strappy sandals with a heel in size five. Scarlet back from the dead did a round off back handspring at my discovery. My grin was electric when the little white tag read $3.50. I felt like doing my own show of acrobatics in the store and I knew that Nicole would take great pleasure in burying my black shoes in a hole in the backyard. I wouldn't be surprised if she then set the hole on fire.

20


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Friday night, Nicole came home carrying smiley-face plastic bags of Chinese takeout. We'd both been so preoccupied with work; I hadn't had a chance to tell her about my stuff: the offer from Nelson Stone and my date with Victor. She was coming in just as I stepped out of my bedroom, my hair wet and my body wrapped in my precious tattered bathrobe. It was my mother's favorite robe and when the house in North Carolina was sold I got a box that my Aunt Ellie saved for me of my mother's cherished items. I wore her robe since the day she died and finally it fit.

"I've got General Tso's, your favorite," she said, waving a white box in the air.

"Oh my God, I totally forgot to tell you! I have a date tonight."

"Really? Who's the lucky guy? And why haven't I heard about him?"

"I know, Nic. I'm sorry! I feel like I've been in a wind tunnel all week."

"Okay, I guess…" she said, spooning a mass of Tso onto her plate. "So?! Who is he?"

I could tell the anticipation was killing her, so I thought I'd torture her a little. "Before I tell you, I have some bigger news. I'm leaving _The Gazette_."

"You're fucking with me."

"Nope. I met Nelson Stone on a story, then again at that event the other night. I must have impressed him somehow, because he offered me a job as his assistant. I start Monday."

"Get out. You mean the notorious Nelson Stone from Channel Six?"

"Yup. The one and only," I grinned.

"Bitch, I hate you!" She said, laughing. "I am so jealous. He's _so_ cute."

"Yeah he is, but he knows it, too."

"Okay, Ellington. Enough with this. Spill it. Who's the mystery date?"

"Some guy you've never heard of. Victor Salvatore?"

"Are you kidding? Every female within a two-hundred mile radius has heard of Victor Salvatore! _New York Magazine _named him Most Eligible Bachelor last year, for God's sake! How do you get through life not knowing this stuff?"

"Some of us, sweetie, have to bust our asses for our paychecks," I said, giving her plate a one-finger shove to the left. To punish me for being unladylike, my subconscious Scarlett held up a Polaroid of Victor's date from the other night. Miss Bombshell, with her heat-seeking missile eyes. "So…what in the hell does he want with me?"

Nicole tilted her head, studying the spot on her placemat where her plate no longer sat. "Maybe you're different. Refreshing. Don't sell yourself short, Angelina. Do I have to tell you again that you're gorgeous?"

"Crap that," I replied. "I've got to get dressed. Thanks for bringing me dinner."

"For the love of God, please tell me you're not wearing jeans and Chucks?"

"No, I went shopping on my way home from work. I bought a dress and—brace yourself, Sugar—a new pair of heels."

"Halleluiah! There is a shoe god," she said, clapping her hands together in prayer. "Quick, go get dressed. I must see them."

"Just eat your food before it gets any colder, Nikki."

"How can I eat after the revelations of the past fifteen minutes?" she grinned.

Back in my room, I put on the little red dress. It was gorgeous, with rhinestones scattered like pixie dust around the neck and cap sleeves. My new heels, strappy and silver, matched it perfectly. After checking my behind out in the mirror behind my door, I went to show Nicole, doing my best Southern pageant-girl twirl.

"Beautiful! But you're missing something. You need a necklace," Nicole said.

"You're right," I said, but the doorbell rang before I could begin to worry that I had nothing fancy enough. I opened the door to Victor, who filled the entire doorway. Slivers of light from the porch light could barely filter through.

"Miss Ellington. You are a vision," he said.

"Thank you, Victor. Or rather, Mr. Salvatore," I said, trying not to blush. "You look stunning as well." Jesus H., he was hotter than ever, if that was possible, in a gray suit with a shirt so white it made me squint.

Victor looked up and saw Nicole, standing in the kitchen with a fortune cookie in her hand. It was about a nanosecond from shattering between the force of her fingers. She was stupefied.

"Victor, meet Nicole, my best friend since fifth grade." I stuck my tongue out at her as he stepped past me to shake her hand.

I think her mouth forgot how to form simple words, like "Hello," or even "Hi." But when his hand touched hers, she made a shrill sound that might have been, "Hi!"

"Miss Anderson, it's nice to meet you," Victor said, melting her with his eyes. Wait a minute, back the train up. How did he know her last name?

"Ready?" Victor asked, turning back to me.

"Yes." I grinned over my shoulder at Nicole, who was trying to catch flies, her jaw hanging halfway to the floor.

As soon as the door closed behind us I asked my question, in what I hoped was an interrogator's voice. I knew if I didn't ask now, I'd lose my courage. "Victor. How did you know Nicole's last name?"

We rounded a tall shrub and there was the Escalade, with Mr. Hawke sitting behind the wheel. As we walked forward, Victor smiled at my weak attempt at intimidation. I continued anyway.

"Besides that, how did you know where I lived the last night? And my cell number, this morning?"

Just as I started to put my hands on my hips, trying to look bigger the way a cornered animal does, Victor moved so he was standing in front of me. Stepping forward, he took me by the shoulders and pinned me against his truck. He looked straight at me, without a smile. I swallowed hard and felt my breath get quicker. What was he planning to do?

He laid his hand on my right shoulder and gently rubbed the nape of my neck with his thumb. My heart burst into flames. I stopped breathing completely, desperately looking around for something to grab onto. The only viable option was Victor's hand, which he clasped around mine and held strong.

That feeling I got whenever he touched me was intensified a thousand times, and my sweet spot turned on like a faucet. I clenched my legs together, both for support and for damming the waterfall that just occurred. Still, I tried to look formidable—at least, as best as I could while facing a large opponent.

Victor bent over and whispered in my ear. "Because I did a background check on you, your family, and your friends."

"Why?"I hissed, not bothering to conceal my anger.

"For your safety, and my own. Unfortunately, you never know someone's intentions. When you're in my position, there are many who want a piece of you. And they'll take it, any way they can."

I stood silent, my hand still in his. My mind was crossed between anger and those…other feelings. It took me a minute to remember where I left my voice.

"Can you do that, without my permission?" I asked, though I could tell that Victor Salvatore didn't ask permission from anybody, for anything.

"Enough with all of this. Let's start our date," he said, shifting my body to the side of the door so he could open it. Next thing I knew his hands were on my hips, lifting me like a figure skater and setting me down in the backseat.

"Hello again, Mr. Hawke," I said, grateful for an excuse to break the tension of whatever just happened.

"Evening, Miss Ellington."

"Where are we going this evening?" I asked Victor as he seated himself next to me. I was doing a good job of sounding unfazed, I thought.

"It's a surprise."

"Fun," I said, in a tone that belied my thoughts. That moment outside the truck had been all the surprise I could handle in one night. Victor picked up my hand and we sat silent. No idle chatter, no awkward moments. Just silence, inhaling each other's the scent, absorbing the sexual energy radiating between us.

Finally, I broke the silence. "Victor, you seem to know everything about me. So now it's your turn. Tell me something about you that nobody else knows."

Victor didn't care for my questions. His expression told me he'd rather open the door and push me out on the street than lay on my leather couch and spill his dirty secrets.

"I hate snakes," he said.

I laughed. "Good to know. Don't worry, I'll protect you. I know my way around a snake. In North Carolina, we have snakes that can kill you. You're safe with me." I patted his arm, and the white of his teeth illuminated the backseat.

"Good to know," he said, and patted me back…on my upper thigh.

My subconscious Scarlett chugged a Red Bull. Something told her she might need that boost of energy.

I hadn't paid attention to where Mr. Hawke was driving. I was still so new to the area, I didn't know where I was going half the time. My GPS was my savior. I could tell, though, that we had crossed over into New York City. Somehow, everything looked brighter.

We stopped in front of a modern building that would've looked just fine on the front of Architecture Monthly magazine. Victor reached for my hand as I stepped out of the truck. Lord, one klutzy elevator moment, and he thinks I'm an invalid! He kept his hand around mine, though, as we walked into the building. So that's okay. Let him think I'm a klutz.

There were a few security guards in the lobby, but nobody else. At the elevator, I noticed something strange: there were no buttons to push. Instead, there was single key opening. After Victor produced the needed key we stepped into the elevator, where he touched a button labeled "roof."

"I need you to stay within my reach when we're on the roof," he said.

"Goodness, will you stop worrying about me?" I pretend-sniped, which hopefully hid my nerves. What was I doing in an elevator, alone with a man I just met, heading for the roof of a 75-story building in New York? Shit, _The Newark Gazette_ might end up writing a story about one of their own: "Reporter found as pigeon food on 52nd Street after being pushed from roof." I had to shake off those thoughts before we got up there.

"Okay. But for the record, I caught you just before you face-planted," he said.

"That's twice you've rescued me in two days. Where's a Copperhead when you need one? It's time that I saved you."

The door opened then, and there on the roof was a path, lined by tropical plants, leading to a small café table. A white linen tablecloth, chilling champagne, and a man in a tux, a towel draped over his forearm, completed the dreamy tableaux.

"Mr. Salvatore, sir," the waiter said. "Miss," he followed with a nod toward me.

Victor pulled out my chair; the tux-clad waiter laid a napkin across my lap. He commenced with pouring me a glass of champagne, but before I could lift it, Victor took the glass from my hand.

"May I see some ID?"

"Very funny," I said, reaching for my glass. "I didn't know you had sense of humor, _Mr._ Salvatore."

"Sweetness, there are many things you don't know about me." His smile wasn't exactly playful. It made me shift in my seat.

I took two healthy sips of champagne as a chilled porcelain bowl of tomato-basil soup was placed before me. It smelled divine, and I realized I was starving. In the crazy of today's car-stressing and dress-shopping and Victor-thrilling, I'd forgotten to eat. Lord, the last time I'd eaten was at last night's fund raiser!

"This soup is incredible," I said, licking the fresh of the basil from my lips.

"Do you like it? It's my grandmother's recipe. She was from southern Italy; immigrated here in 1919 with my grandfather. They were twenty-one and my father was six months when they arrived at Ellis Island. My grandfather built his company slowly over the decades, passing it down to each generation, stronger and bigger."

"Beautiful. The epitome of the American dream." I said.

The waiter delivered the second course: lasagna, the best I'd ever had. I savored the sweet-tangy bite of the sauce, the flavors of the spices. "I can't even speak, this is so good."

"You just spoke," Victor said with a grin. "This one? My mother's recipe."

"Can you cook like this?"

"I can cook, but not quite like this. My sauce will never be as good as my grandmother's. But it's a damn fine work in progress."

"My sauce consists of what's on sale at the grocery store," I said, popping another bite of Italian heaven into my mouth.

Victor expression was that of someone who'd just sucked a lemon. "Jar sauce is an insult to all Italians. It should be pulled off the market." It was another one of those moments where I couldn't tell if he was serious or not.

"You can't do that!" I said, reaching over and clutching his forearm. "All the hopeless, Italy-challenged people like me would be deprived of our pasta!" He smiled at that, thank God.

"On our next date, you'll be learning how to make red sauce."

Our next date? Did he just say, our _next_ date? "Okay," was all I said. But my subconscious Scarlett was grinning like a circus clown.

The desert course was cannoli. I was stuffed; there was just no way. I held my hand up when the waiter went to set it down.

"Thanks you, but I can't. I didn't even finish my lasagna."

"Have you ever had real cannoli?" Victor asked.

"Um, actually, no."

"Here. Just try a little bite," he said, moving his spoon toward my lips.

I opened my mouth to protest, which was his opportunity to insert the bite of sweetness. Stuffed? Who's stuffed?

"Oh, my God. This is amazing. Which of your magician-chef family members made this?"

"I did." Victor said. God, was he hot.

"Impressive." He didn't need to know if I was referring to his cannoli or his cheekbones. Or his eyes. Or his lips. "Had I known it was your cooking, I would have eaten the whole thing!"

"Next time," he said. "Tonight, I have more in store for you. Shall we go?"

"I'm not sure if I can move. Victor, that was the most incredible meal I have ever eaten. Thank you."

"My pleasure. Now come. I'll carry you to the elevator, if need be."

"Victor, will you stop it? I can manage!" I said. Not that I would've minded having those arms wrapped around me….

Mr. Hawke was waiting for us in front of the building.

"Where to now?" I asked, wondering how he planned to trump a rooftop dinner prepared by Italy's Julia Child.

Victor put his finger on my lips, and the lights of the city around us disappeared as my eyes were drawn to his.

"You really are beautiful, Angelina," he said.

"Thank you," I said, but not until I had turned my blushing face to the window.

Just like before, we held hands and rode in silence.

The Escalade turned off the main road and into a quaint little suburban park, looking to be part of country club, evident by nice landscaping and small lake. A sudden flash of panic slapped me across the face, the story of the discovery of my body now went from 52nd street to some secluded golf course lake. Victor senses my trepidation.

"We are going to drive around the lake, it's beautiful. It is quiet and tranquil and just the two of us and we can sip champagne and talk. It is hard to get to know somebody in a crowded restaurant or theatre."

"But you already know everything about me!" I said. "It's you that I need to peel like an onion."

"You know," he laughed, "you might be right."

"So spill it, Salvatore. From your conception to now. I want to hear it, unless you're willing to give me your secret agent's name and let me do my own background check. Then we could skip this 'getting to know you' phase."

"I think I might like that idea. That way, we can skip to the part where we peel each other like onions."

My gaze went back to the window. "I'm sorry, but that's not going to happen on the first date."

"I know, Angelina," he said, putting a finger beneath my chin and turning my face back toward him. "That's one of the things I like about you. You're different from most women."

Jesus H., how does he know what "most women" are like? How many have there been? With his looks and money, it must be triple digits. I could feel my expression jumping around like an aerobics instructor.

"Your experience with the female of the species—would it qualify you as an expert?"

He grinned. "My experience in this area is not as broad as you think. I am a very private man, Angelina. I don't open up easily, or to just anyone."

I thought about it and realized that actually, I wasn't surprised at that fact.

"Would you like a glass of champagne?" Victor said, pulling a bottle from an insulated bag I hadn't noticed before.

"Yes I would love some. Are we swigging from the bottle?" I said, and he laughed. I made him laugh!

"No, wise guy. We're drinking from the glasses I have in my hand."

And damn if he didn't have two crystal flutes, threaded through his fingers. How many tricks did this man _have_ up his custom-tailored sleeve?

"Bravo," I said with a clap. "Usually, I wouldn't be drinking on a weeknight, but I don't have to get up for work tomorrow."

He raised one luscious brow, handing me a fizzing flute.

"That's right. I got a new job!"

"Really," he said calmly, as if my revelation was no surprise.

"Yes, really. I am the new reporter's assistant to Nelson Stone, from Channel Six News."

"Congratulations, Angelina," he said, clinking his glass with mine.

It was after midnight when we pulled up in front of the condo. The light in the living room was on, which meant Nicole was waiting to interrogate me. Of course she was. And I couldn't wait to relive the details with her.

As he walked me to my door, Victor mingled his fingers with mine.

"Any plans for tomorrow, Angelina?"

"Other than my duties as a domestic goddess, you mean?"

"Wonderful," he laughed. "Domestic duties are made to be done by someone who needs an income. I'll line up a maid service, and pick you up at noon."

Before I could even begin to come up with a reply, he made a move like a stealth fighter. His lips staked their territory on mine, and his tongue touched the soft parts of my lips. My pulse's RPM gauge screamed, burying the needle in the red zone. Instantly, my engine was blown all to hell. When he pulled away, I was panting and sweating like a dog trying to pass a peach pit. He smiled triumphantly at my obvious reaction.

"Noon then," Victor said, running his knuckle down my cheek. My voice was not yet resuscitated, so all I could do was nod. Scarlett was blowing in and out of her brown paper sack, trying not to hyperventilate.

As I went to put my key in the lock, Victor leaned forward and kissed me again. I was jolted by the sound of Scarlett's bag exploding.

"Goodnight, sweetness. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow."

I watched Victor's back as he headed toward the waiting vehicle. When he gave me a wave before closing his door, I released a sigh of contentment.

Cracking open my own front door, I was hit with the sound of CSI reruns. Nicole sprang from the couch like a puma smelling an antelope. She was on me just as fast, grabbing my hands up in hers.

"What the hell, girl! You're shaking! You okay?" she asked.

"More than okay. I just got the most amazing kiss I ever had." I said, a grin making its opening night appearance.

"Be real: the _only_ amazing kiss you ever had from a real man not some college boy."

"You win," I said, which made both of us break out laughing.

"So what did you do?"

"We had dinner on top of a skyscraper in the city. The food was created from his family recipes. It was outrageously good. And the desert, the cannoli? He made it from his own recipe!"

Nicole resumed her fly-catching pose. "Impossible. He's gorgeous, he's rich and he can cook? I don't know, girl. There must be some freaky thing he's into. He's a serial killer, or he collects old ladies' underwear."

"Nicole!" I said, slapping her arm. "Stop it!"

"I will when I want to. Want some wine?" she said, heading for the wine fridge.

"No, just my pillow. Victor and I are going out again tomorrow. I need to rest up."

"Okay, all kidding aside? Please, be careful. I could be paranoid, but I—I'm sorry, Ang, but I feel like there's something just a little…off, about him."

"You're watching too many of those crime shows," I said, turning away from the TV. "G'night, Nic."

"Sweet dreams," she said, waving me off with one hand and grabbing a goblet with the other.

It was a relief to be able to go to my room. My want and need radiating from down south was beginning to take over my every thought. Just short of sprinting I headed to my room and in no time I was wearing only my skin as I dove into bed. I mentally examined all of the symptoms of my present state as I lay perfectly still in the darkness of my room. Starting from the top, my face felt flushed and my lips were quivering. A little lower I could feel my nipples standing tall and the light breeze coming through my window had the nerve endings singing a glorious tune. My abdomen was tense and firm and below that I could feel the damp tingling sensation I had experienced so many times…as far back as my early adolescent years. I closed my eyes and began to explore my body with light touches from both hands. The feeling was purely heaven sent and with every touch each of those symptoms multiplied tenfold. Working my way to my nipples, I gently stroked them with my fingers and felt the surge of pleasure coursing through my body. Jesus H, they were larger than I ever remember and exploding with sensation with each touch. If only I had just a touch bigger breasts…oh how I would love to suck each one into my mouth. Leaving my right hand working its way back and forth between my breasts, my left hand ran down my stomach gently touching every inch of the way down. With every touch I could feel the wet sensation between my legs grow stronger, and the throbbing of my clit was like African drums in my stomach. My legs unconsciously worked apart, as if my loins were beckoning my hands to touch and explore their depths. I first brushed my thumb across my lips, just below my clit, squirming in anticipation of what I knew was coming. The wetness dripped off my thumb, adding to the growing wet spot on the sheets. I closed my eyes and slowly methodically massaged my sweet spot and in my mind it wasn't me, it was Victor. Oh my insides are burning for him. I want to give him every inch of my body to explore.

_**My mind wandered to Brad, my first and only serious boyfriend. His blonde curly hair framed his cherub face and brilliant blue sapphire eyes. His facial features didn't seem to match his buff athletic body. Our friends would joke about the Southerner girl and the Boston jock. Brad played every sport, but hockey was his passion and I had never even known that sport existed until I moved North. I found that, as football is the Holy grail in the South Hockey claims that title in the North. My first sexual experience with Brad was the night that I went to his first Hockey game. I was so amped up on adrenaline and excitement t of hot college guys slamming each other into the board of the hockey rink and the carnal savagery of the sport made my Subconscious Scarlett whip out the paddles to shock my libido to life. Scarlett was giving my libido mouth to mouth when my sweet spot sprung to life starving and scared, but wanting. That night after the game, Brad had climbed out of the shower. I was having a sleep over, as we called it, at his apartment he shared with two other guys…conveniently not at home. Brad was wet and cold and I was tense but ready, he entered me and I could sense from his seasoned approach that he had done this before. I closed my eyes. The sensation was both painful and pleasurable wrapped together. The pleasurable part was starting to take over my body when Brad let out a moan that would have woken the dead…immediately he was spent, rolling off of me and breathing like he'd just finished a marathon. That was it, less than five minutes? So that is what all the 'two, three, four and five minute' jokes were about! I was left wondering, 'is that what all the hype was about'? Somehow I felt cheated. Damn, I was just starting to have the feeling that all of the waiting and wondering was worth it and I was dropped like a bad habit. I looked at Brad, and my look must have been of loss and bewilderment, because that is when he took my left hand and taught my fingers the art of self pleasure. As I was lightly brushing my clit as he thrust his finger inside, I let out a gasp and could feel the climax building inside me slowly. I would grow to love that feeling over the years and also learned the magic my own fingers could perform. When I came it was a feeling of immense pleasure and peace, but before I had time to bask in the post-orgasm afterglow, Brad was back on top of me again. This time the experience was even quicker than the first. He rolled over and fell asleep. This was our ritual for the year and a half we dated in college. It ended after graduation Brad stayed in Boston and accepted his dream job as a sport caster for a big local station in Boston and I was moving with Nicole.**_

Victor's fingers became his tongue, flicking and sucking my clit and my mind lost all thought of Brad and the younger days. My hips arched up, my breathing intensified and as Victor Salvatore's face invaded my mind. As I came, it wasn't the normal release…"Jess H, I'm coming again"! As I bucked with my first ever multiple orgasms, the juices flowed out of my body like a faucet was left on. The orgasmic sensations of this night would stand out as the night of nights! I could only imagine having this man in my arms, loving me like a man should….Brad! Wet spot, what wet spot? I would deal with glazed doughnut dilemma in the morning. My eyes were heavy and I drifted off like a baby.

11


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

I woke up with a pounding head, thanks to last night's champagne. Trying to ignore it, I headed for the bathroom to rinse off last night's donut glaze. Next stop was my closet, where I pulled a pair of nylon shorts and a T-shirt off a shelf. Finally, in a truly masochistic move, I reached for my running shoes. I needed a run, to clear my head and get rid of last night's heavy foods. A few more meals like that one, and my ass would be the height and width of a helipad.

Even at nine AM, the mugginess was suffocating. I was sweating inside of five minutes. To distract myself from Nicole's warning—"There's something about him…"—I counted the beads of sweat as they hit my lips. What was she getting at? I picked up my pace, rather than try to figure out an answer.

I turned onto my street just as a delivery van pulled up in front of my door. A slight man with thin glasses and thinner hair slid open the van's side door. He leaned in, then emerged with a huge vase of red roses. As I headed up the stairs, the man stopped me.

"Angelina Ellington?" he asked.

"Um, yeah," I said, wiping a dripping forearm across my dripping forehead.

"These are for you," he said, holding out the roses.

It took both hands to hold onto the vase. It's a wonder that I opened the door without dropping them. Nicole was coming out of her room in hot pants and tank top. Even when she first wakes up she's gorgeous, damn her.

Her eyes flared from sleep-heavy to wide awake when she saw the flowers. "Who are those from?" she demanded.

Putting the vase on the breakfast bar, I snatched the miniature envelope from its plastic holder. The plain white card inside of it said, _"Angelina, I hope you'll enjoy these as much as I enjoyed our date last night. Looking forward to seeing you today. Dress cool for day, sexy for night.-Victor"_

"God, where do you even _find_ such beautiful roses?" I said, while mentally taking stock of my closet. Other than the little black dress I wore last night, I didn't have anything that could be classified as sexy. I sure as hell couldn't wear the LBD again, or the dress I wore to Senator Matthews' fundraiser, either. My Internal Scarlet stood there frowning at me, her arms crossed and her foot tapping.

I spent my shower deliberating over what I would wear. As I was drying off, I glanced at my bed and saw a white box with a red bow. "Now what's this?!" I yelled to Nicole, who appeared in my doorway holding a bowl of Froot Loops. How that girl keeps her figure while eating crap all day is one of life's great mysteries.

"It just arrived while you were in the shower," she said. "Who is this guy, Santa Clause?"

When I untied the bow, lifted the top off the box, and pulled back the tissue paper, I found two dresses: a lacy sundress, and a cocktail dress with bling around the neck. Another tiny envelope was tucked in the corner of the box; another plain white card read, "_I thought these would be nice for today. Size 2: correct?-Victor"_

"That's sweet, I guess," Nicole said, eyeing the clothes. "He got your size right, but it's a little creepy that he knew that your fashion arsenal is MIA..."

I threw her an annoyed look as I held the sundress up to my body. It was a beautiful pale yellow. Beneath another layer of tissue paper was a pair of size five sandals. Wow, is he good, I thought. My Internal Scarlet was sporting her cheesiest grin. Beneath the cocktail dress was a second pair of shoes, strappy and black with a five-inch heel.

"Not _that_ creepy, if he wanted to be creepy, he could've guessed my bra size. What are you jealous?" I smirked.

With the sundress on, I put my hair up in a braid, did my Southern belle twirl, and went to find Nicole. Then it was twelve, and the doorbell rang, and there was Victor. Nicole yelled bye from her room as I grabbed the bag holding my new shoes and dress.

"Victor, thank you for the flowers and the dresses. That was so sweet of you. But you don't need to be buying me things!" I said, instead of hello.

"I know. But I like to, and I can," he said, reaching for my hand. He glanced at my sandals and smiled. "You were right, you know," he said.

"About what?"

"It _is_ impossible to find shoes for you."

"Welcome to my world, dude," I said, as he took my hand and kissed it.

"Just be grateful. I thought I'd have to choose from the children's shoe department, in which case it would've been pink plastic Hannah Montana flats."

"Like you'd have been seen with me anywhere in those! Where are we going, anyway?"

"Inquisitive, aren't we?"

"It's my job."

"Well then, take a day off. In you go," he said, helping me into the Escalade with the usual guiding hand on my ass.

"Can I make a suggestion, Victor?"

"Go for it."

"Maybe we should take my car. You know, so you don't have to keep boosting me into this one." He looked horrified for a second, until he caught my smile.

"Don't think that's going happen. That car of your is on its dying breath."

"I love that car! I'm just getting her broken in. And so…you won't tell me where we're going, huh?"

"Nope. How about a drink?" he asked, leaning in toward the mini-fridge.

"It's only noon!" I said. "Just water for this girl."

Victor opened a Perrier and poured me a glass. He then reached behind him and extracted a bottle of Merlot. The label was one I hadn't ever seen before, but the year on it, I did: it was a 15 year old bottle of wine.

To cover my shock, I leaned forward and opened the mini-fridge. "You are well stocked," I said, amazed at what he had packed in there.

He took a sip of wine before settling back into his seat. That one sip, I'd guess, cost as much as the heels I bought for our first date. When he put his arm around me and pulled me close, the heat from his body sent that electric jolt coursing through me again. I fidgeted, trying to suppress the lust blooming inside me. Victor put a firm hand on my leg, then squeezed.

"Do I make you nervous, Angelina?" he asked me. His huge brown eyes drilled straight into my soul. Looking down, I kept the fidget going. His grip on my leg got tighter.

"No," I lied in a whisper. He absolutely made me nervous. Not as if I was going on a job interview, or waiting to see if I passed a final exam. It was a different nervous, a nervous that flooded every crevice of my body with desire, that gave me alien feelings.

"Good. Then stop fidgeting." I nodded, surprised at the sharpness of his tone.

I heard the crunch of the truck moving from a smooth surface to rough. Gravel hit the undercarriage as we went down a dirt road, leaving a cloud of dust in our wake. We turned a corner and row upon row of vines came into view, as far as the eye could see. A gate just ahead held a sign, glossy burgundy with raised golden letters reading "Salvatore Vineyards."

"You own a vineyard?" I asked, clamping a hand over Scarlett's mouth. It wouldn't do to have her doing back flips in the close quarters of the truck.

"Yes. I couldn't find any wine in the U.S. that felt like home, so I decided to try my hand at making wine. I took my family's knowledge and combined it with American soil, and produced a hybrid Italian-American wine. This is one of the little surprises I promised you. I'll show you around the vineyard, then we'll have some lunch, do a wine tasting. There are some new grapes we're considering; I would love to hear your opinion."

We pulled up to a stone building with a burnt orange Spanish tile roof. The doors were curved at the top, and the cast iron door handles were in the shape of a S. We might as well have been approaching the giant's castle in Jack and the Beanstalk. It was that imposing and beautiful.

Victor opened my door and let me get out myself, perhaps because I was in flats today, rather than heels. He then took my hand and led me into the castle. The walls were made entirely of wood; the whole open room smelled like cedar. A large bar spanned the back wall, while padded stools and an array of wine glasses stood at the ready. Victor motioned for me to sit as the gentleman behind the bar, clean cut in his gray pants and white linen shirt, placed a single glass in front of me.

"Angelina, this is Claudio Marolo. He oversees the vineyard's operations."

The hand he held out to me was that of a hard-working artist. Long, elegant fingers were balanced by calloused palms. "It's a pleasure, Miss Ellington," Claudio said. His rich accent told me the family knowledge wasn't the only thing Victor saw fit to bring over from Italy.

Lifting a decanter, Claudio poured an inch of white into first my glass, then Victor's.

"I thought you were saving the tasting for last?" I said, turning to tap Victor's upper arm. He caught my hand midway, though, and used it to pull me in toward him.

"This is just a warm-up," he said, his lips about an inch from my own. Fireworks, anyone?

Next thing I knew I was settled firmly back in my seat, as if nothing had happened. Claudio was pulling the cork from another bottle, and Victor was picking his glass up from the bar. He gently rolled the wine around the bottom of it, then inhaled its scent. Next he lifted the glass to catch the light from the window, apparently studying the texture and color. Clearly, he was an expert. My knowledge, meanwhile, extended as far as the box-wine special at Stop n' Save. Finally, Victor took a swallow of his wine. I followed suit. It was fruity, but dry. Not my favorite. I dug deep to keep from making a face.

"What do you think, Angelina?" Victor asked.

"Good," I said, but my tone made me out to be a liar.

"Not your favorite?" he asked.

"Well, no…but don't listen too closely to my opinions. I don't have a lot of experience in the wine department."

Victor laughed and put his hand on my arm. "We'll change that," he said. His smile was so white, I had to squint.

Next Claudio served a Chianti. This time, to be safe, I took a smaller sip. It was sweet and delicious. I finished my pour, and Victor laughed.

"Guess we found the one you like. Claudio? Seal of approval on the Chianti."

"Yes, sir," he said, making a mark in a small notebook.

"Next stop. Ready?" Victor said, placing his hand at the back of my arm and ushering me down from my stool.

We headed toward a door in the far corner of the room, then exited out into a tiled piazza engulfed by a sea of vines. At the far side, a Jeep wrangler was waiting. Victor helped me in, hopped into the driver's seat, and commenced with my tour. He talked about strains of grapes and which ones were the best for flavor and texture. He pointed out how one particular grape only grew for three months out of the year. He explained how his vineyard in California produced the majority of his wine, but the grapes grown here produce wines more similar to those he had grown up with, in Italy. It was all kind of like a good sleeping pill, but then, I could listen to a six hour lesson on life insurance annuities, if Victor was the instructor.

It was three o'clock when we got back to the main control center of Salvatore Vineyards. A lunch of chicken piccata and pasta was waiting for us on the piazza. It was classic scene, a late lunch in the garden in a small village near Tuscany. Out front, I was certain, were cobblestone streets and ancient architectural masterpieces.

"The chicken is wonderful. To whom do I owe the accolades?" I asked between bites.

"That would be Claudio," Victor said, refreshing my Chianti.

I put my hand up to stop him. "Just a little bit! I am just now recovering from a hangover from last night's champagne. You don't want me napping in your lap before dinner, do you?"

"Hmm…that could be fun," he said. "But I'd rather have you awake than asleep. Let's go get changed for the next phase of our date."

On a shelf in a lavish downstairs bathroom, my red dress and strappy heels waited. The bathroom, complete with a separate changing area, was larger than my bedroom. The standout feature was a copper sink with a matching faucet, identical to the one in my Grammies house in the North Carolina mountains. Luckily, my internal Scarlett kept me from getting maudlin with those memories. She was hopping foot-to-foot with impatience. She never was good with waiting for surprises.

I dressed quickly and combed out my hair, which was starting to form a rebellious coupe, thanks to the humidity and windy jeep ride. Thank God I'd packed my toothbrush and toothpaste. The piccata sauce had staged an outright assault on my breath, which could now be registered as a deadly weapon. Looking in the mirror in my new red dress, I reigned in the urge to do the Southern Belle twirl. My wine-tinged light headedness and five inch heels would have made me fall right over.

Mr. Hawke was in his usual spot behind the wheel of the Escalade. He was waiting to whisk us to our next covert destination. How many miles a week did he drive for Victor? And where did he _take_ him? At least my tour in the Jeep had cleared up one mystery: I now knew that Victor knew how to drive. Since I had known him, I had not once seen him behind the wheel. It was always Mr. Hawke.

What with me being such a lightweight, I was ready for that nap. Victor pulled me close to him, and I laid my head on his chest and closed my eyes for just a second. I thought I was dreaming Victor's lightly stroking the side of my face, but when I opened my eyes his lips suddenly were on mine. As soft as his lips were, there was no doubt, they were in command. I crossed my legs as a feeling of lust grabbed hold of me. My Inner Scarlet was shaking the stuffing out of my libido, frantically trying to set her free. She was just winning the battle when Victor's lips retreated.

"Holy hell. That was amazing. Do it again, please!" I pleaded.

Victor laughed. "Oh, I will. Don't you worry about that. By the way, you're adorable when you sleep."

Panic grabbed onto me. Jesus H., please tell me I didn't drool or make those monkey noises I've been accused of in the past….

"I didn't embarrass myself, did I?" I asked, ignoring Scarlett's scowl. She wasn't happy about that effort she wasted on reviving my libido.

"I'll never tell," he smiled.

"What? You've got to tell me!"

"You were fine. I promise," he said, as Mr. Hawke drew the truck to a stop.

"Where are we?" I asked, looking out at the lights and buildings that seemed piled on top of each other. From the images I had seen in movies, it reminded me of Las Vegas.

"Atlantic City, he replied. "Are you a gambling woman?"

"Do I strike you as one?" I said, trying to calculate the distance we had covered. I had definitely been asleep long enough to do something stupid.

"Well, you will be tonight." He grabbed my hand as the valet opened the door and greeted Victor by name.

"Do you own the casino, too?" I asked. I'm not sure, but I think I sounded like Little Orphan Annie.

"Not all of it. It's been in my family for three generations, so I share ownership with my father and grandfather."

"Your grandfather is still alive?"

"No, he passed away five years ago. His interest goes into the trust he set up. So, which table shall we start at, my dear? What do you want to try your hand at first?"

"I have no clue. What do you suggest?" It was overwhelming: the noise, the glaring lights, the dense cloud of cigarette smoke. The population index in the casino was off the charts. Thankfully, Victor did the thinking for both of us. He led me over to the craps table, and the dealer slid a huge stack of chips toward each of us.

"How much money did he give me?" I asked. My words came out garbled, as my throat was raw from the two men with stogies on my left.

"Thirty thousand," Victor replied, with what can only be described as nonchalance.

"Thirty thousand dollars? Are you kidding me? That's how much I owe in student loans!" I said, before I could stop myself. I took six green twenty-five dollar chips from my stack, then pushed the remaining chips toward Victor. But his massive hand blocked my chips from invading his.

"Nope. You take them," he said, in a tone that told me he meant it.

"Hey, sweetie. If you don't want your chips, I'll take them off your hands," one of the stogie-smokers said. His breath stank of gin, and his hand hovered over my lower back, waiting for the right moment to land. Lightening fast, Victor's palm clamped around the man's wrist.

"The lady is fine, sir. I would appreciate it if you didn't touch her." His tone made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. The two men glared at each other for a second; the rest of the table froze. It was like time stopped for a moment. Then, from out of thin air, two men in three piece suits and earpieces appeared. In a flash, the man and his cigar were gone, and Victor's hand was firmly placed on the small of my back. The gesture sent a message, loud and clear: I was with him, and he would protect me. I smiled to myself, hearing my mother's voice: a true gentleman! My Internal Scarlet batted her lashes and looked coyly down at her iced tea. The Long Island version.

"Place your bets, folks," the dealer ordered. His uniform consisted of black pants, white shirt and burgundy vest. His bow tie was off kilter. I had to suppress the urge to reach over and straighten it for him.

I looked to Victor for some sort of guidance, as I had no idea how to play craps. His eyes were on the table, though, so I just mirrored his bets. With his thirty thousand dollars mine to lose, I felt like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. When I lost my first hundred and gasped, he rubbed my lower back in a gesture of encouragement. But that only made my libido rev up. Scarlett jumped to the middle of the craps table, cheering me on with a blow horn.

The craps table was busy, and there was more money being lost then won. Gradually, though, I picked up the premise of the game. Twice I got brave enough to bet differently than Victor. On those occasions I won once and lost once. Thankfully, though, it was "only" another hundred. If I owed him a grand, I'd have to get a second job, right as I started my new one. My thoughts flashed forwarded to Monday morning, my first day as Nelson Stone's technical reporter. I had been so engrossed with my hot new Italian Adonis for the last two days, I haven't even thought about Nelson's plans for me. If that bastard makes me work socialite fluff, I may have to break out a can of whoop ass. Scarlet locates the can of whoop ass on the fourth shelf, shuts the door and grins. Just as Scarlet and I were enjoying our plan for Nelson, I was jolted back to the present by a deafening roar from the crowd surrounding the table. Victor had just made his seventh straight pass and a large stack of high value chips were pushed his way.

We walked away from the table an hour later, me with a stack about even with where I had started. We went to a dining room, tucked away at the back of the casino. It was much quieter, and, as far as air quality, it was like moving from Detroit to Maine.

A maître d' greeted us. "Your table is ready, Mr. Salvatore," he said. We followed him to an expansive booth in the back of the restaurant. A glance at the clothing of the diners made clear that the legendary Vegas-style buffet would not be on offer.

The booth was private and cozy, so I snuggled in next to Victor. When Victor put his hand on my knee, Scarlett gasped, then jumped to her feet and started doing jumping jacks. Thank God for small miracles, because our waitress appeared to pour our wine. The proper procedures and etiquette for serving Mr. Salvatore were obviously etched into the employee training manual. Our waitress was well versed in the protocol, barley speaking and making eye contact only when necessary. She asked Victor only one question: "The usual, Mr. Salvatore?"

"Yes, that will do, for both of us," Victor replied. She nodded, then retreated. Two silver combs held her ballerina bun neatly in its place. The combs reflected the candles' glow from each table she walked past.

12


End file.
